


Like You

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before they leave for Russia, Erik confronts a possibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like You

**Author's Note:**

> I used a mutant from the comics for my own purposes here.

“It’s a monkey suit.”

“In truth, Erik, it should be referred to as a penguin suit. If you’re splitting hairs.”

Erik refrains from rolling his eyes, tugging at the bow tie he wears. The tuxedo is tight and hot and despite it being made for him (clothing; a strange detail he could care less about unless he needs it to fulfill a purpose), he still struggles with the feeling of _encasement_ and thoughts of concrete and ice blocks flit like tiny dancers in sharp pointed shoes through his brain.

Charles appears in the full length mirror behind him; smooth, sophisticated, at home. He smoothes fingers down Erik’s arm, picking at invisible lint. “This will be worth it, I promise you.” He smiles briefly, the lightning quick motion lighting his eyes – Erik shuts his and drops his hand from his neck. “You do remember this whole jaunt being my idea, yes,” he says, not a question. “I have no problems here.”

Too small, too much richness, opulence, so different. He swallows and turns to Charles, the other man finishing the last bit of the wine the hotel has provided them. Erik leaves the mirror behind and opens the door, the subtle lighting and the rich carpeting forcing prolonged blinks from him; used to threadbare and torn and most of the time, nothing. It is a wonder he’s not bolted (never forget the goal) sometime on this ridiculous ‘jaunt’ that was his idea. Yes.

Charles laughs and matches his stride as they move toward the lift, the glow of the lamps in the hall passing over him as Erik watches out of the corner of his eye, _shadow, light, shadow, light, shadow, light._ “We are doing something good, Erik. Something these children might not expect, might not know they need, but need it they do. And who better than to bring hope to them?”

Erik laughs at first; he leans forward and presses the call button for the lift. When Charles doesn’t chuckle with him, he cocks his head and, shoving his hands in his pockets, allows the corner of his mouth to rise as he meets the other man’s eyes –

“Surely you’re joking.”

“Surely you’ve got to believe I’m not.”

The lift comes then, and Erik has no time to tell Charles the truth, because there are humans in the small _cage_ room, and the door slides shut on his answer.

*

Whirling masses of humanity. Erik lounges in a corner as he watches Charles speak intently to the young mutant they’ve come to find, one Charles had seemed adamant about them locating. He wouldn’t fill Erik in on the details for some annoying reason, merely smiling and telling Erik this one was _needed_. The child is terrified at first, but Charles being who he is, seems able to win the girl over. Xavier’s hands are animated; he keeps glancing back at Erik, raising his eyebrows, gesticulating in ridiculous, large arcs.

People (flatscans, he thinks, using the word Hank has coined, although Erik thinks Hank wouldn’t use it the way he does) flow and ebb around him; he drinks champagne and looks for all the world as though he’s bored to tears and born to wear a tux. In truth he watches _everyone_ , watches Charles’ back, keeps the other man safe from the people who seem to want to approach him because he is Charles. He attracts.

Erik smiles again at that, a bright, brief scary predator grin that turns away the woman who’d been slinking toward him with half-lidded eyes. The power of attraction is one he’s familiar with.

“ – Erik,” comes out of the blue in his ear; Charles is next to him, folk whirling and buffeting around them, the beautiful backdrop of the museum they’re in crystal-like and tinkling. Standing up straight and turning his back to the crowd (dangerous, but better to keep Charles safe) he cocks a regal brow and looks down his nose at Charles and the girl child accompanying him.

Her hair is _green._ A very light shade of green, but it’s still obvious. Erik forces the sudden strange desire to touch it out of his head, and nods once as Charles introduces them.

“…Erik Lehnsherr, and this is Ms. Lorna Dane.”

Erik puts out his hand perfunctorily, but stops mid motion, letting the girl’s hand hang there inappropriately. His head jerks and he takes a step closer to her before he can stop –

“I can feel you.”

Charles is practically bouncing on his toes, an absurd child with a new toy. “I told you she was needed, Erik. She’s like you.” Erik can read, can practically taste the excitement coming off Charles; the little girl is petrified but hangs her hand out still, waiting for Erik to say or do something that’s normal.

Why would he change who he is?

He slides a hand up to his neck and undoes the bow tie, letting the thing droop and then drop from the costume he wears. “No one is like me, Charles.” His fingers find sure roosts at his sides, and he ignores the crushed look the girl gives Charles. The girl, like him - _fuck._

 _you and I, we’re going to have a lot of fun together._

He turns on his heel, the shiny, beautiful expensive shoes clicking on the tile floor, the doors opening with a wave of his hand, people parting for him without their say so, even if they don’t realize it. Charles’ confusion echoes in Erik’s head, but he keeps going, the night the only place he can find relief from the terror that’s risen unbidden, unwarranted.

*

The giant statue of the man that all Americans seem to revere lights the Mall like a beacon. Erik thinks it’s ostentatious, pretentious and showy, but he finds the broad steps and wash of light that hides the darkness a place he can stand to be after the crowd at the event Charles _he didn’t warn me_ took him to.

Another metal mutant. Not only is Erik not the only mutant on the planet, which is still something he can’t quite digest (the idea churning in his guts when he tries to sleep, possibilities and fear racing to dominate his thought patterns), but there’s _another metal mutant_. Why did Charles not warn him?? Did he think it was a game, something funny, something that Erik would like as a prize for being so cooperative?

He sheds his jacket and hunches his back, sitting on the hard steps, every part of his body sore and stiff and he clasps his hands as he hangs them on his knees. He could _feel_ that girl, could sense her the second she came close to him. He thinks a flashing, lightning bug of a thought, too scared to really examine it, if they had touched would they have snapped together like magnets?

He laughs bitterly even as Charles climbs the last of the stairs and sits. What would Herr Doktor have done with _two_ of them?

“She could teach you – us – a lot, Erik,” Charles says softly, spine ramrod straight as he sits on the step below Erik, earnest, leaning toward Erik, hand on Erik’s arm. The wash of yellows and reds from the memorial turn Charles’ hair auburn (groovy mutation; Erik smirks, unwanted) and drains the blue from his eyes, giving them a bleached out look that has Erik turning away from them. Blank and zombielike. He shakes his head even as Charles goes on.

“You should have told me,” Erik interrupts finally. “Aren’t I here as your equal? ‘I’m with Erik on this?’ Isn’t that what you said?” He licks his lips and lets his chin rest on his left shoulder as he watches the colors play over Charles’ ruddy cheeks. Gold, red, yellow, red, yellow. The whole Mall is lit. A waste.

 _barely know him._

“Not barely, Erik,” Charles says softly, sighing. He lets his posture slip, and he leans back on his right elbow, his head level with Erik’s leg. “Not at all, my friend.” He rubs at his nose and looks up, squinting into the light that haloes his head. “I thought you’d be … adverse to the idea, if you knew about her.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

They stare out at the night, Charles leaning comfortably against the hard stairs, Erik sitting, his hands (the power there untapped; he wonders about the girl’s) hanging from his knees still. The moon rises as they sit, Erik’s shoulders gradually loosening as his breath comes easier.

“What did you tell her?”

Charles sighs, a pent up sound Erik has a feeling the other man’s been holding for longer than he’d like to. “I sent her home. I can see to her tomorrow, before we leave.” He touches Erik’s leg, the finger warm through the wool trousers of Erik’s suit. “I’m sorry, Erik.”

 _I’m sorry, Erik. I do trust you. I AM SORRY._

Erik raises a hand to his temples and squeezes the two sides with thumb and pointer. “Ow.” He lets go and twists his mouth. “I know this is important to you, Charles.” Charles is contrite and a flush creeps up his neck, Erik lips stretching to a wry grin as the other man stutters apologies for his projecting.

“I am your equal, Charles. I may be the only one who is,” Erik says without thinking, quietly, self assured despite his reaction to _Ms. Lorna Dane._ “We want the same thing.” Along with the other things Erik wants, _needs_. But the things that Charles wants seem to be superseding some of Erik’s wants, and that is … he has no words to describe the feeling.

When he says it, it rolls off his tongue, and he stops, the echo of his words bouncing around inside, hard at first, painful, gouging holes in theories and pathways he’s built for the whole of his life. He winces and rubs at his nose, the tingling in his brain heating, burning him slowly from the interior. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want security and surety. He wants power and danger and the path he knows. He doesn’t want to pick up another (another!) metal bender. How is that even possible –

“Genetics, my friend. You know I’m not the only telepath; why isn’t it possible?”

Erik stands. “You’re getting your lovely suit dirty, Charles,” he says, hand out to the other man. He won’t look at him, but after a moment Charles takes his hand and rises, gracefully as in all things. The moon is full and fat in the sky and Erik has no idea how long they’ve been outside. He only knows he’s tired of _possible_ and endless, endless questions.

Moira had contacted Charles earlier in the day; they’re on their way to Russia tomorrow. Possibilities.

And yet Erik wishes for one fraction of a moment they could stay out here forever, bring the chessboard and some wine, and just be still for the moment as he never could as a child. Never a moment, never time to sit still and think.

 _She’s like you._

“Are you sure about this?”

He turns to Charles, and finds he’s still holding on to the other man’s hand. He’s loath to turn it loose, but he does. Strange. “How in the world can I even answer that, Charles?” _You know the truth._ “Of course I am. This is all I am.” Charles’ expression is shadowed and pinched as he looks at Erik, reaches out a hand, brushes Erik’s fingers quickly. He says nothing. Odd.

 _I am only what he made of me._

They walk down the steps together, strides matching. Erik stops at the end, his greater height forcing him to look down at Charles. “I’ll speak to her in the morning with you, before we leave.” The words grate out of him like glass being smashed – or like the crushing of a gun held by a tailor, or a pig farmer. “Alright?”

He’s not interested in Charles’ approval; he doesn’t need it.

But he _wants_ it, craves it, desires nothing but it, despite his affectation toward strength. He is only _the goal_ made flesh. He has to remember that.

“We want the same thing,” Charles answers, smiling, his full lips broad and beautiful in Erik’s eyes. “I am with Erik on this.”

He swings his right hand and bops Erik softly on the shoulder, the rich, thick white shirt absorbing most of the impact of the gesture, and then walks on toward the other end of the Mall, a soft whistle trailing behind him. Some song that’s popular, Erik is sure, but he has no idea what it is.

The girl – the other mutant, _She’s like you_ \- will be there in the morning. And so will the plane that will carry them to Erik’s goal, his only goal, the thing that defines and makes him.

He’s sewn together from parts, cobbled by pain and anguish and misery and strength, and yet Charles Xavier and his solid kindness pulls Erik’s broken mind behind him like a –

“Magnet,” he says out loud and finally allows for the eye roll he’d hidden earlier. Charles brings out the child in him.

That child he’d thought long dead.

The girl will talk to him in the morning. He follows Charles, leaving behind the expensive jacket, the trappings of the rich not necessary to him, for he has what he needs in order to feel safe.


End file.
